


Thanksgiving, 1986

by ciceroisagobshite



Category: Gilmore Girls
Genre: After Lorelai Left, Gen, Pre-Canon, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2019-02-11 22:57:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12945846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ciceroisagobshite/pseuds/ciceroisagobshite
Summary: “Oh, for pete’s sake -  Martha? MARTHA?” Emily yells this at the bottom of the staircase, feeling herself winding up for what her grandmother used to call ‘a nasty little scene’.





	Thanksgiving, 1986

 “Oh, for pete’s sake -  Martha? MARTHA?” Emily yells this at the bottom of the staircase, feeling herself winding up for what her grandmother used to call ‘a nasty little scene’. Emily is in fact aware of the scene she causes doing this, that it would be more dainty and delicate to accept the poor service with equanimity and to write a poisonous reference letter, but Emily also has never understood why you should have to accept something not being done properly to be proper. Someone has to hold the standards, even (or especially) when it concerns why Martha has not put out the best china, or told the cook to take the walnuts out of the Waldorph salad (though what salad it is without the walnuts, she does not know, but Walter Addington is allergic to walnuts, possibly just to spite her), or, worst of all, not even made an attempt to dry clean Richard’s favourite suit for evening, the disappointment of which he made very clear in another little ‘scene’ in the study. Christ, she needs a drink. 

The drink will come latter though, when she welcomes the Addingtons and the Wheelers in the lounge, and Richard makes everyone a cocktail affably and ably – in short, when everything is finally proper. At this very moment, she has a maid to ‘terrorize’, as Richard calls it when he feeling egalitarian, not that he ever feels egalitarian when his suit isn’t pressed. No, egalitarianism is always saved for when the ship is running smoothly, or A.T – after terrorizing.

After a particularly shrill ‘MARTHA!’, the woman herself appears, looking appropriately meek for someone who is getting fired on the last Friday of November, visits by the ghosts of Thanksgiving past, present and future be damned. 

“All of the china needs to be laid out again, Martha, it’s the Villeroy and Boch, not the Royal Albert, trust me, the Wheelers notice this kind of thing. And please, will you let the cook know about the changes to the salad, he didn’t seem to have the faintest idea what I was talking about when I went to check on the turkey.”

“Yes, Mrs Gilmore,” Martha said, keeping her eyes fixed on the carpet.

“Oh for heaven’s sake, no need to look so maudlin. Now, will you please hurry up?” Emily barks this, already heading up to the bedroom to see which alternative suit can be suitable for his lordship, since a trip to the dry cleaners has been thwarted by both date and time. Richard is in there himself, clearly having decided that sulking in his study wasn’t the most productive use of his time. He stands back from the closet, judging his options.

“The herringbone from London?” he asks, quietly, his own way of apologizing – a deferment to her judgement, to her steering of the ship, that never fails to settle her. She shakes her head.

“The navy single-breasted. You can wear the brown loafers with that, you still haven’t broken in your new oxfords. You shan’t want any foot pain tomorrow, you’re playing squash.”

Richard pulls the suit she picks out promptly, and begins to change, and she falls in love with him again, just a little, just for that. She is never so certain she chose the right man that when she recognises the strategic retreat, needed to keep the battle of their marriage going until death do us part.

“You’re certain you want to have guests over?” he says, gently.

 “What on earth are you talking about? We’ve had the Wheelers over for Thanksgiving for years, and it’s 5’o’clock already, they wouldn’t be able to get anywhere else for dinner. Honestly, Richard, you can be so ridiculous sometimes!” Emily says this as the walks out the room, not avoiding looking at Richard, but also not looking at him quite directly either.

**

The salad had walnuts in it.

Walter Addington had been polite as could be, simply buttering a roll and picking away at it, but Emily noticed, and asked, “Is there anything wrong with the salad, Walter?” A rhetorical question really, since she had known the minute she had glanced at his still full salad plate. Or, not a rhetorical question really, but not for Walter either – instead aimed at Martha. Unfortunately, her tone was a little too icy, too exact,  since Martha immediately jumped forward to retrieve his salad, and jolted the water glass, slopping a little on Walter’s lap, resulting in Emily shouting, “You silly girl! Can’t you do one thing right?”

The salad had walnuts in it, and Emily had made a nasty little scene, and for a moment the room had seemed to spin. The odour of bad taste hung over the table like fetid vegetable scraps, like something messy not properly tided away. But then Richard told Martha quietly to take the salad away, and once she was out the room quipped that he would be thankful for good help, but only next year. The table tittered, gratefully, _thankfully_ , all wanting to forget the ultimately forgivable faux pas of snapping a little too forcefully at the help.

Emily smiled bashfully, and Sarah Addington asked her about the Christmas Auction that Emily was planning, which made Albert Wheeler jokingly grumble about how much this was going to cost them. Emily made a mental note to start the bidding a hundred dollars higher on that Queen Anne end table she knew Buffy had her eye on. And just like that, the dinner righted itself, as they discussed how well that last fundraiser had gone, and hadn’t Midge Gellar made a real show of herself with that fourth martini? Emily smiled again, this time not faux bashfully, and saw Martha re-entering the room quietly, and starting to take away the now finished salad plates. Emily didn’t lose her smile, didn’t even pause, let the chitter-chatter continue unabated, but fixed a stare at Martha when she dared to look her way again.

Martha flinched a little, and then stared fixedly at the floor. Emily continued to look for a moment, noting the inward turn of Martha’s feet and wiggle of her fingers as she resisted looking to see if Emily was still staring. then she let it pass, turning to Albert to ask if he’d decided on Paris or Rome for the spring. Martha would be dealt with later.

**

The evening was a success, nonetheless. Nonetheless-ness seemed to colour evening Emily did these days. But the Wheelers and the Addingtons both raved about the pumpkin pie, and Buffy made her promise to give her chef the recipe. They ended the evening in a comfortable haze of gin and vermouth, and Walter Addington had bored everyone stupid by talking about farm subsidies, but Richard had saved the day by making a joke about Steinbeck and gotten everyone talking about some wonderful new book that Emily really did mean to read one of these days.  Buffy had mentioned the next DAR meeting on the way out, meaning her vote was safe, so take that Mrs Van de Kamp. Albert was tricky as always, congratulating her a little too sincerely and a little too generously on a triumph of an evening, making her bristle for a moment as to what he thought she was triumphing against. But just for a moment. The Addingtons left, and the Wheelers left, and the china was put away with not a single scratch on them. Everything put away, just where it should be.

The house was quiet again, and the only tasks left was for Emily to change into her nightgown, put on her night cream, and retire, all easily surmountable since she was the one to perform them. She wandered dreamily towards the stairs, tracing her fingers on the panelled walls. It was a lovely house. To her right, a chink of light shone from the partially open door to the study. She moved towards it in annoyance - Martha was meant to turn off all the light before bed – but stopped when she heard the familiar dial of the rotary phone in Richard’s office.

He was not trying to call anyone at the office – not a soul would be there on Thanksgiving. She knew who he was trying to call, and felt a bitter thrill of satisfaction that his calls went as unanswered as hers had been that afternoon.

**

“You asked to see me, Mrs Gilmore?”

Emily glanced up from her desk – well, Richard’s desk, but she was using it at this current moment, and really shouldn’t a desk belong as much to the person who chose it, organizes it and supervises it’s cleaning?

“Yes, Martha, I did. Sit down please.”

Martha sat.

“Now, I think it will come as no surprise to you that after your, frankly, appalling performance yesterday that I will have to terminate your employment. Thanksgiving is one of the highlights of the social calendar and despite my constant hand-holding, Mr Gilmore and I had to suffer some very embarrassing situations, such as serving nuts to a man who is deathly allergic!”

Emily, who started calmly, feels herself settling in for a rant.

“Standards are important in homes such as this. When you deviate, even slightly, those standards slip, and then what is the point of even having those standards? Why not heat up some TV dinners, and sit slack-jawed watching some sitcom?”

Martha slumps in her seat, ducking her head and biting her lip, clearly trying to stop crying. Emily can recognise the signs, but doesn’t feel charitable. Martha didn’t follow the rules.

“What I aim for in this house is the finer side of life, good food, cultured conversation and all the-“

 “You fucking bitch,” Martha spits, with a level of violence Emily could never have expected from this meek little thing.

The three words take all the air out the room, leaving Emily gasping for breath, off-kilter, and able to do nothing but watch as she leaves.  

**Author's Note:**

> Given that my tumblr dash is basically non stop pleas for someone, anyone, to comment on a fic, I sincerely doubt this note is needed but -first time caller, long time listener, please be gentle! But constructive! But also, mostly gentle. Also, my sword for anyone for spots the Desperate Housewives reference.


End file.
